~Chapter Ten: Of Protection and Anger~

Djali considered himself the excellence of his species. He wasn't a dumb goat by a long shot – no, how many goats do you know can dance for coins? Djali knew that he was gifted, and, as goats go, was extremely conceited about the fact. He was bordering on arrogant, all things considered. But he could never understand these humans – why, he began bleating at the window almost five minutes ago, when the chariot had first pulled up to the door, and still no-one was paying attention. The stupid one, the human with the long red hair and the sleepy eyes, was crying in a corner with the ugly one, who seemed to be sniffling himself. His mistress, however, was murmuring something in a low voice to the blonde man whom she had attacked earlier. Djali stamped his rear hooves in frustration. First she had attacked him, and he had helped, and then the two seemed to be feeding on each other's faces. He would never understand humans, but now wasn't the time to be discussing the oddities of his mistress's race. He gave a particularly loud bleat just as the bolt shot back from the front door, and his mistress jumped to her feet, a wild look in her eyes. The ugly one looked panicked, and then said something in a very low, fast voice, and the next thing Djali knew was that his mistress had flung him into her arms. His teeth rattled together as she scrambled through the door and into another corridor, followed closely by the stupid redhead who was now yakking about something in a high-pitched, terrified voice. He bleated at her, but his mistress just shushed him and they hurtled downwards, their feet slapping noisily on the stone steps, until they reached a small wooden door.

Amelia felt the cold blast of winter air hit her squarely in the face, freezing the tears on her cheeks and making her shiver. She didn't know how Esmeralda went around dressed as she did, with her shoulders exposed – the January air was frigidly cold and she felt her feet go numb very quickly. Djali was giving her an evil eye which only goats can obtain, and Amelia stuck her tongue out at him pettishly. He, in turn, blew a raspberry, completely knocking Amelia off balance mentally, and caused her to trip over her own feet. Well, seeing as he was looking smugly down at her from Esmeralda's arms, he didn't physically trip her. But he did make her lose her concentration, which, with Amelia, was basically the same thing. She got to her feet swearing like a sailor, and the two girls fled into the night, panting and expelling frosty white clouds of breath in the air. "Hurry!" Esmeralda said, turning a corner neatly and pressing her back against the wall. Amelia took the corner, but not quite as nicely, and nearly upended herself again. Amelia winced and rubbed at her calves, which were red and shiny from the heat of the fire she had charged into not two hours ago. Well, at least I don't have to shave my legs, she thought to herself ironically. Great method, Amelia. Just dash into a burning building, and presto! No more hair!

Esmeralda paused and waited until her friend had righted herself, and then closed her eyes. "We can – wait here for a moment," Esmeralda panted, swallowing draughts of air. Amelia sank to the ground gratefully, but almost instantly shot to her feet, having sat down in the middle of an icy puddle. Esmeralda bit her lip to keep from spilling out a relieved laugh, and looked at the scowl on Amelia's face.

"Hey, Esmeralda?" Amelia said after both of them had caught their breath, but were unwilling to leave the shady warmth of the overhang they had found. Amelia looked at her feet and twisted a lock of red hair around her finger. "I'm sorry for being an idiot back there, and wasting time. I thought – well, I'm really scared of heights."

"I know," Esmeralda said, putting Djali down on the ground and allowing the goat to stretch his legs. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you. I just –" She hesitated, looking at Amelia in her disheveled state, the clothes wet and muddy, her hair a frizzy mess, soot streaking her arms and face. Amelia cocked her head to the side and leaned against the building, lifting her eyebrows slowly, feeling an extreme exhaustion settle over her.

"What?" She asked, almost lazily, and Esmeralda shook her head. The gypsy didn't want to say what she had been thinking – I don't want you snatching away my friend – and instead, passed her dry tongue over her dry lips. She could almost taste the fear which still sang in her veins, the fear of being caught by that horrible man. She rested her head back against the wall, panting.

"Nothing," She said, almost to herself, the words hidden beneath the sound of her still-settling breathing. "Come one, we need to keep moving," She said, after a long pause, and Amelia opened one eye and gave a short nod. Esmeralda scooped up Djali and the pair took off again down the street, their feet hushing over the grimy cobblestones with a good deal more finesse than previously. Esmeralda noted Amelia's thick breathing, but also noticed her shortened stream of complaints. The girl was growing a spine, or at least learning to curb her tongue. This slight sign of maturity irked her slightly, jabbing her like a hot fork. Any sign of Amelia being a suitable match for anyone – Clopin – was annoying, to say the least.

The graveyard was silent, as it always was, and the rusty hinges screeched in a wild peal of pain as Esmeralda tore the gates open. The rusty bars bit deep into her palms, but she ignored the flakes of rose blossoms which peeled from the iron and shed onto her hands. The tombstones gaped toothily with crooked gray teeth, sagging against one another and sinking into the mushy, black earth. The soggy, dark path twisting sinuously between the tombstones felt mossy, slick and damp beneath their feet, and Amelia shivered slightly. Djali bleated morosely, and Esmeralda dropped him into the mud, ignoring his indignant look. In front of them was a huge stone monument, flat slabs of sheer rock closing off a tomb of some dignitary. An elaborately carved stone angel tilted her pain-wrought face to the heavens and her huge, frozen wings curved against the ivory paper moon. The thick slabs of rock were covered in rude script, but Esmeralda ignored this as well and slid her slender, dark fingers between the crack of the stones and pulled with all her might. The stone gave a deep, rustling grumble and moved perhaps a fraction of an inch. Esmeralda blew a strand of dark hair from her eyes and glared at the opening; this was much easier to open from the other side.

Amelia cocked her head to one side and frowned. "How do you open it?" She asked, watching mutely as Esmeralda threw her weight into pulling the sheaf of stone aside once more. There was another granite rasp, and it moved another quarter of an inch. Esmeralda blew on her fingers and let her shoulders fall loose.

"Well, you're supposed to – unhh – open it like this," Esmeralda said, yanking against it once more. "But I'm no Clopin, and I can't open it myself."

"Wait, you mean Clopin can open this by himself?" Amelia asked, raising her eyebrows and looking down at the thick rocks. She was tired to the bone, and her legs burned as though red ants were crawling over them, and her shoulders screamed in protest when she pulled halfheartedly at the opening. Esmeralda caught herself quickly – she needed to direct this conversation elsewhere.

"Maybe we could bang on it," Esmeralda said, and Amelia noted this conversation change. For once, she elected to keep her mouth shut and merely slumped against the rock, running a weary hand through her bedraggled hair. She didn't particularly care what they would talk about, didn't really care that Esmeralda was protecting him, or anything. All she cared about was getting inside, to the Court of Miracles, and getting a hot bath and a bite to eat. She wouldn't mind snuggling under a pile of blankets in Clopin's caravan, actually – the idea of drifting off to sleep while inhaling the sharp, lingering scent of basil was inviting.

"And that would do what, exactly?" Amelia snapped. She closed her eyes and felt her pulse throb in her temples. She squeaked in surprise as she heard the scrape of stone against stone. She somersaulted in a very ungainly fashion, and saw a large, round, bearded face smiling at her.

"Ah, chere, we find you once more in a snowbank," said the deep, gravelly voice of Harman. "Come, Esmeralda, bring your cold friend inside and we shall have soup."

He hadn't been able to sleep all night.

He had sent out search parties, of course, ordering them to be furtive and silent, collecting information only. They had rolled their eyes and made their jokes in low voices, none of them having the decency to say anything about his new interest with this girl to his face. But he was the Gypsy King of France, and therefore told to stay home while they looked for the girl and Esmeralda. Rosa had instructed him to go to bed, but that was even worse; not only did her have to stay in his chilly, empty caravan and think about everyone else doing all the work, but the place smelled of her. It wasn't so much a scent as it was a feeling – his blankets had been thrown back carelessly, but there was still a shell of a formation where the blanket might have curved around her hip. The dip in his pillow indicated where his houseguest had lain her head, and he had stood there and stared at his own hammock for what seemed like forever. And then, when he had actually tried to get to sleep, he found it impossible; something distinctly feminine lingered around the edges of his pillow, mingling with the crisp, basil-scented soap he usually used to wash his linens and clothes.

But the damning question was WHY?

She was not pretty, intelligent, wise, or clever. She was not even gypsy! She was merely a redheaded woman who played the violin exceptionally well, a woman who was clumsy to extreme fault and who didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. She didn't know French, her way around Paris, or know when to shut up. And yet, he had rescued her three times, for three separate reasons: The first time, because he was felt pity for the young lost girl, missing her violin in the streets of Paris. The second time, he had done the sensible thing he would have done for anyone – tell them to take sanctuary until everything blows over. But it was the third time which gave him grief, the third time he rescued her which was annoying him to no end. He couldn't fathom why he had brought the girl in from the cold – she would have awoken frozen and stiff, for the morning sun would have thawed her effectively, and he knew far better than to reveal the location of his people. And yet, he had brought her here anyway, brought her to the legendary Court of Miracles despite these things.

He brushed his way out of his caravan when he heard the whooping, shouting clamor outside, folding his arms as he took in the procession. Esmeralda and Amelia were in the center of a small crowd of people, women ruffling their hair, men whistling smilingly. They both looked terrible – muddied and soaked to the bone, and judging by the way they were both shaking, half-frozen. But Amelia looked horrible – her ankles and a bit of her exposed calves were shiny and unnaturally red, her red hair singed brittle at the tips, and her cheeks smeared with soot, painting her fantastically. Those green-gold eyes stood out sharply in her snow-pale cheeks, and he felt more than a twinge of sympathy. But his simmering anger boiled over when he saw that tired little smirk lifting the corner of her mouth, anger at himself for allowing him to be angry, but mostly angry at her for sneaking out.

The crowd parted to make way for their Gypsy-King, and Esmeralda looked relieved, a little frightened, and tired. "Oh, Clopin –" she began, but was cut off.

"Where the bensier have you been?" He demanded, and the crowd quickly and wisely began to disperse. However, listening ears pressed against walls and curtains, straining to hear the conversation. Esmeralda jutted her chin defiantly.

"I brought some bread to the miller family. You know they've always helped us in our times of trouble, and they went hungry this winter, harder than most." Esmeralda said. Clopin shook a finger in her face.

"That gives you no right to go running off in the middle of the night!" He said. Amelia butted in, her soot-smeared eyes half-lidded and looking as disdainful as ever.

"Great, wonderful, yes, Clopin, we're sorry. Can we go to bed now?" She asked, those lazy eyes almost closing. She snapped awake when Clopin drew closer to her, and those dark, beautiful eyes were even darker with his genuine anger. She was taken aback at his eyes, and he saw a spark of surprise in her unusual green-gold orbs. "Hey, Clopin, what's wrong?" She said, startled, and he broke in.

"You snuck out, in the middle of the night, without my permission! And you have the daring to ask me what is wrong?" He demanded. Esmeralda took a step backwards, unable to believe her eyes. Because, yes, he was angry, but he was also passionate.

"Both of you, stop it!" Esmeralda said, more to break the bond between their eyes, because they hadn't actually argued, per se. Her voice was higher and tighter than she had expected, and Amelia looked at her, curious even in her exhaustion. Clopin took a deep, shuddering breath, and then threw his hat into the dust, running his hands through his hair.

"Esmeralda, go to your caravan," He said, and his tone brooked no argument. Esmeralda folded her arms.

"No." She said. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she glared at him, then went off with tears smarting in her eyes. Didn't he know she was just trying to protect him?

With Esmeralda gone, Amelia looked almost fearfully at Clopin. He had seemed so angry just moments ago – was he going to strike her? Their arguments had been mocking and only slightly serious, but he had seemed to furious with her, genuinely and really furious. She almost didn't want to raise her eyes to his, but his gloved hands were curiously still. She dared flick her gaze up past his tall frame and past that bearded chin, and into those intense black eyes. To her surprise, the anger had faded, replaced by a ruefulness, sympathy, and slight softness.

"Come," He said, his voice still sounding a little clipped, but much better than it had been previously. "Let's get some salve on those burns." He said, and jerked his chin towards his caravan.

She didn't know that all she would have to do in the future to keep him happy was pout.

A/N: Sorry for not updating for so long, but my personal life is starting to fall apart and my daughter just got braces for the first time, so a little pain there. Anyway, tell me what you think. Is the romance going too fast? Too slow? What?